Hitman: Bloodlines
by RenegadeZabuzaMomochi
Summary: It's been years since the legendary 47 was finally silenced. Now a new number rises as 47's replacement, but what he doesn't know is that he holds close ties to 47 and Diana Burnwood. But what could it be?


_**AN:**_ I do not own any copyrights to Hitman.

_**Beijing - April 7, 2027.**_

It was a cold winter storm. It never prevented me from finishing the job. I was recently assigned to assassinate a local crime boss. This one particular mission required great celerity and stealth so I had to finish the job soon. After setting up my sniper rifle, I look into the scope and zoom into my intended targets. I found the lesser of the two leaders, but still no signs of the job. I waited patiently in the blindingly cold snow. I was gifted with this kind of patience ever since my escape from the asylum.

Thirty-seven minutes later, I see him. My target: Hueng San Chu. He was accompanied by his partner and what appears to be his doctor. I notice the two are deeply indulged into a conversation and my objectives were to make it appear like a normal assassination attempt. Without a moment's hesitation, I lock my visuals on the target and gently press against the trigger. But what failed to catch my attention was the other end of my rifle. Another hitman.

The instant the bullet left the other hitman's rifle and made the explosive sound, I quickly roll to my right and return back to my original sniping position. I pressed the trigger, allowing a sequence of bullets to escape one by one. Almost instantly, he falls on the floor but nobody notices. Not even the smoking guards below. There's something my "brothers" and I have in common: silence.

_**Austria - May 19, 2007.**_

Around my seventeenth birthday, I was merely an experiment of the "Series VII" cloning project. I never really had much of a family growing up, with the exception of my vivid creativity of escaping the asylum and being sedated by my "loving family" for my violent behavior. They had a record of a unique individual like myself a long time ago. He was born on September 5, 1964. What happened to him remained a mystery for us.

I survey my small room with a book on my chest with my index finger saving a page. All you can ever do in this shit hole was read and contemplate. When you were given the privilege of coming outside, it was just a number of intense training. Both mental and physical training. When the time came that I reached my adolescents, they left me a special present on the back of my head.

You see, we didn't grow up like normal children. We never got the chance nor the ability to experiment what we wanted to. But we really didn't care because we were taught a handful of things. Back then, they never cared if you lived successfully. Back then, you were taught your own code of ethics and morality. Back then, they didn't give us names- they gave us numbers. Mine was 640509-07077. To make the story short, I was given the title of "Mr. 77."

The time I escaped the asylum was Saturday, May 19, 2007 at 0400 hours. I was supposed to have my occasional visits with Dr. Byrd that day. Instead of having these special visits and the physiological talks, I chose to leave. I quickly annihilated the rest of my "siblings" and the rest of the asylum's staff before reaching Byrd. When I did, he didn't seem that afraid. Not even with a Jericho 941 pistol facing his forehead.

"Why, Byrd?" I ask him.

"Why? I think the question you should be asking is who?" Byrd said back to me. You call that a response?

"I'm not here to play mind games, Dr. Byrd. I know who I am, what I am and what I'm going to become. I know exactly who I am."

"Are you positive about that?"

"Definitely. What's the sole purpose of recreating an ancient past? Why do you need us?"

"If I told you, you will lose mental stability or you'll never believe me. What's more important is the decisions you will make in the future.

I stare at him, face-to-face. What I saw in Dr. Byrd was an older reflection of myself. The same blue eyes, the lack of hair, similar facial expressions and the barcode on the back of his head. I don't understand how one of the "Series IV" clones would want to resurrect such an idea. There was absolutely no use. Unlike them, we didn't know our "other fathers." They didn't spare us the detail. They just trained us like dogs.

"And keeping me as I am for the past eighteen years wouldn't cause that?" I retort.

"The truth is in the eye of the beholder--"

"So I've been told." I cut him off from completing.

"The door's open. Nobody is left alive and the police won't arrive for the next hour."

"There is no need to be in a hurry."

"The answers you will find, 77, are outside of these walls. Your destination is beyond this science lab."

"I know."

"Then you are more than prepared to meet the world."

"Evidently." I press on the trigger. It blew a hole into Byrd's forehead and rendered him dead.

I was already wearing the standard suit that the others normally wore. The only exception was the colour of our ties. Mine was black instead of the red with red stripes. I check for vital signs on Dr. Byrd before I make my escape. When I found none, I grab the suitcase that was in front of him and found two pistols. They were customized AMT Hardballers with asylum's logo on it.

I didn't need to clean up the place. There would be no evidence other than a few clones locked up in their cells. By the time the police would arrive, I would be on my way to United States. But I chose to go to Siberia. I was holding a train ticket to Siberia and thought I could find a suitable occupation there. I had no other choice.

I hotwired Dr. Byrd's BMW and sped off to the closest train going to Siberia. I knew little about the world but I had enough information from all of the geographical books I've read over the years. I knew the climate during certain seasons, the agriculture and even the map to their sewers. I was seventeen years old and I escaped from Austria.

_**Siberia - June 5, 2010.**_

It took me quite a while to reach where I was to be but I've managed to get here. I was inside of a worn-out hotel that looks like it was ready to collapse any minute. I didn't care. I knew what I was doing. I opened up the laptop and I was greeted by the bright flashing lights of the ICA logo. It didn't really irritate me since I was already patched through a line.

"Diana, this is 77."

"Good afternoon, Agent 77. I trust you had a good night's rest?"

"Of course. And I'm assuming you've sent the payment into my checking account."

"Well paid. You did a splendid job in keeping the assignment without notice."

"I can't really afford being susceptible for a crime. Less money."

"Exactly. Your next job is in India and this particular mission requires an extraordinary amount of stealth... and rescue."

I was paying attention to Diana's voice stoically and carefully until she mentioned the word "rescue." The could only mean a couple of things. Somebody was in deep trouble or deep shit. In my own terms, when somebody is in deep trouble, it's usually a regular mission that requires me to acquire someone of importance and bring them back to safety. When it's deep shit, it's usually Agent Smith. Come to think of it, it's **always** been Agent Smith. Regretfully, I ask who it is for the worst news.

"Who's the subject?" I grunted. Diana gave out a soft chuckle.

"It's Agent Smith."

"Why is this man always getting himself into conflict?"

"It's a natural trait that 47 has grown accustomed to."

"Right."

"Once you've obtained him and retrieve everything you can on the list to your right, you must make sure he reaches India's border. Your payment will depend on how good you do."

"Understood."

Something about speaking with Diana is heart-warming. Call me cold-blooded all you want but having these no-contact conversations with her was pleasant and it made me feel a lot better whenever I returned back to my temporary bases after a job. It was as if I were talking to my mother and from the information that I've gathered, she was old enough to be my mother. It's a silly thought, but I never paid any attention to it. I quickly pack the weapons and utilities I will be needing for rescuing Agent Smith- again. And from what I've learned, I'm going to have a long time getting him out of danger. Knowing him, he did something stupid enough to land him a spot in A-class quarantine.

_**London - June 5, 2010.**_

"What have we got on this lad?" Detective Michael Gold asks.

"77 hasn't made any subtle movements since the assassination of Senator Jackson on Independence Day. Last year." Informing him was his partner, Detective James Silverman.

"No leads? Absolutely nothing?"

"No, sir."

"This is getting frustrating. Ever since the massacre at Dr. Jacob Byrd's asylum, we've been two steps behind. This one's a ghost. Just like 47." Michael pulls out a cigarette from his breast pocket.

"Ever wondered how 77 looks like?" Silverman asks almost stupidly. Detective Gold slowly looks at his partner and shakes his head.

"They're clones, James. They all look alike."

"... Oh."

_**Siberian Airport - June 6, 2010.**_

9:32pm.

"One ticket to India, please."

"For how many?" asks the accountant.

"Just one."

"That will be 500 ruble."

"Do you accept MasterCard?"

"Of course, Mister..."

"Tobias Rieper."

"Yes, we do, Mr. Rieper."

"This will do."

"Yes, please." Agent 77 smiles at the woman.


End file.
